


Logic's Notebooks

by parsnipit



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues, wow these tags make it sound a lot darker than it was intended to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 07:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10917546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Anxiety is having a bad day. While he’s usually good at hiding it, Logic’s also good at seeing it anyway. After twenty-eight years of living together, and almost one of being romantically involved, there’s very little that Anxiety can slip past him. So today Logic does what he always does when he wants to help—he gets his notebook.AKA, the one where Logic keeps comprehensive notes about his friends and feels terrible about it.





	Logic's Notebooks

Anxiety is having a bad day. While he’s usually good at hiding it—much as any animal hides its weakness, lest it be singled out or left behind—Logic’s also good at seeing it anyway. After twenty-eight years of living together, and almost one of being romantically involved, there’s very little that Anxiety can slip past him.

There are a million little tells when Anxiety gets into one of his moods, and much as he tries to suppress them, one or two always come through. Today he’s quieter—less snarky, more withdrawn. He’s fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie. He’s more active than usual, a ball of agitated energy, moving from place to place as though being still physically irritates him.

Logic lets it go on for most of the morning. Sometimes it’s just something that Anxiety needs to think through. A little time goes a long way. Today, however, that doesn’t seem to be working. By dinnertime, he hasn’t gotten any better. He’s perched on the arm of the couch, staring blankly at a rerun of _Parks and Recreation_. He’s got one knee pulled to his chest, and the other is bouncing rapidly. His fingers pluck at the denim of his jeans—just as his mind is, no doubt, plucking at the insolvable problem it’s created.

So Logic does what he always does when he wants to help—he gets his notebook.

Or, more specifically, one notebook of five. The one he needs today is a simple thing. Its cover is smooth, unadorned black, and its pages are pale gray. The lock on it is dull metal, the black paint that once covered it chipped away by time and use, and the key is hidden underneath his mattress. The notebook itself is sequestered away in his sock drawer.

He pulls it out and unlocks it, sitting on the edge of his bed and flipping to the page he needs.

_Discovering the Problem—A Method_

  * __Before you can adequately address a problem, you must know what the problem is. This is most conveniently achieved by holding a conversation. However, as this is Anxiety we’re talking about, that may pose a problem. First, he must be in a state of relative calm. (To help during panic attacks, see page 07.)__


  * _When he is calm, approach him. If he reacts positively, go to step 3. If he reacts negatively, go to step 8._


  * _Begin a light conversation. Topics such as the weather, a meal, or a show may be appropriate at this point. If he continues to react positively, go to step 4. If he begins to react negatively, go to step 11._


  * _Broach the subject of the problem. Attempt to be sensitive, but direct. If he acknowledges that there is a problem, and tells you what the problem is, proceed to step 5. If he acknowledges the problem but does not know what it is, go to step 14._ _If he does not acknowledge the problem, go to step 18._


  * _Attempt to discuss the problem. Have him talk through it and rationalize it. Be careful that you do not make him feel foolish about it if it appears to be a simple problem. Remember that, to quote Morality, “All feelings are valid.” If you reach a satisfactory conclusion, continue to step 6. If you have not reached a satisfactory conclusion, continue to step 21._


  * _Now that you have addressed the problem, Anxiety should be feeling slightly better. To further encourage him, you should do something nice. Suggest a movie night, or dinner, or something calming. If he says yes, see step 7. If he says no, understand that it has nothing to do with you, and he may just need some time alone._


  * _Do the nice thing. Including some of the suggestions from the section_ Stimulating Oxytocin Release _may also be appropriate—although be sure that he is comfortable with these before you do any of them. For further information on consent and comfort, please see the section_ Prior Agreements, Body Language, Consent, and Established Safewords.



Logic sits back, satisfied with his brief review, and returns the notebook to its hiding place. Then he returns to the living room, where he finds Anxiety sprawled out on the back of the couch, scowling at the TV. Logic puts more weight into each step, allowing his shoes to clap loudly on the floor and announce his presence before he speaks, so as not to startle Anxiety.

“Hello,” he says.

Anxiety glances at him. “I just don’t see what they had to throw such a fit about gay penguins in this episode,” he says. “Bunch of assholes.”

Logic’s eyes brighten—they’ve already moved into Step 3. That’s good. He takes a seat on the couch, folding his hands in his lap and preparing to converse. He knows a lot about _Parks and Recreation_ (he knows a lot about most of Thomas’ interests, to be fair) so it’s easy to keep up a running conversation about it.

They chat aimlessly for almost five minutes, which seems to Logic like an appropriate amount of time to have established a comfortable level of socialization. Now they can move onto more important matters. He clears his throat as Anxiety’s rant about penguins’ various sexual orientations winds to an end and says, “But as interesting as conversing with you about this is, I must confess that I have another topic in mind.”

“And here I thought that for once in your life you didn’t have an ulterior motive when you started talking,” Anxiety says, smirking at him—but there’s some soft, curious thing in his eyes that lets Logic know it’s okay. “Shoot, four-eyes.”

“I’ve noticed that you seem to be particularly—oh, what is the turn of phrase? Wound-up? Yes, that’s it. I’ve noticed that you seem particularly wound-up today.”

Anxiety stares at him for a long moment—debating, doubtlessly, the pros and cons of admitting the problem or shoving it into a far corner to gather dust. Logic can almost see the cogs of that brilliant mind turning behind Anxiety’s eyes, twisting options around and fitting ideas together to make everything seem bad and terrifying and awful. Flawed rationale, but rationale all the same, and how Logic craves to hear it out—to argue with it, to make sense of it, to see his gorgeous, intelligent Anxiety in every word.

“Okay,” Anxiety says, finally, and Logic feels his muscles relax at the admission—muscles he hadn’t even know were tensed. “Yeah, maybe I’m a little off today.”

“Do you know why?”

Anxiety shrugs, looking away. “Thomas got invited to a party.”

“Yes, I know. Is that the problem?”

“I guess. It’s stupid, I know.”

“No, not at all. I would like to hear why you feel that it’s a problem, however, if you wouldn’t mind telling me,” Logic says.

Anxiety stretches, and Logic is pained to see that what should be a relaxing movement is stiff and uncertain. “You wanna argue about it?”

“Of course,” Logic says. “Always.”

So Anxiety tells him—tells him every bad thing that could happen, how it would make people look at them differently, how it could affect their career, their social life, hell, their _friends’_ social lives, and Logic sits and drinks it in and tries to understand. In the end, he does understand. That’s how very clever Anxiety is.

But, in the end, he can also still see all of the flaws in Anxiety’s argument. He can see the spots where fear overwrote probability, where the _what if’s_ were so unlikely that they may as well have not existed. He points these things out to Anxiety—gently, but firmly—and Anxiety adjusts the collar of Logic’s shirt as he listens. Flips it up, folds it down, taps his fingers along the vertebrae in Logic’s neck.

That’s how Logic knows he’s won, in the end. Anxiety is already seeking out physical contact, which means, for the time being, that his thoughts have been quieted. Once Logic has stopped speaking, he holds his arms out, and Anxiety obliging rolls off of the back of the couch and squirms into the embrace.

Logic combs his fingers through Anxiety’s hair, savors the way Anxiety melts against him, breathes in the distinct smell of him—sweat and cologne and the subtle, sour tang of fear. He runs his hand in wide, warm circles between Anxiety’s shoulders and feels the powerful push of his heartbeat beneath his ribs. God, he adores this man.

“I’ll cook dinner tonight,” Logic says, his fingers playing over the knobs of Anxiety’s spine. “What do you want?”

“You don’t have to do that, Lo,” Anxiety says, lifting his face from the crook of Logic’s neck to frown at him.

“I want to.”

“Just because you pity me—”

Logic draws his brows together, pinches his lips, hopes his frown looks as stern and severe as he wants it to. “Anxiety, we’ve talked about that. I don’t pity you, I—”

“Love me, yeah, okay, but that still doesn’t mean you have to do my chores just because I’m having a bad day,” Anxiety says.

“I want to,” Logic repeats. “If it makes you feel better, we can switch cooking nights. I’ll cook today, and you can cook on Tuesday. Just let me do it tonight.”

Anxiety huffs at him, but agrees. Logic cuddles with him for a few more minutes before prying himself away. He doesn’t have to look at his notebook again. He has most of it memorized, by now, but reviewing it is comforting. (Because what if he’s wrong? What if he forgets?) Anxiety’s favorite foods are so ingrained in his mind, however, that the urge to review them in his notebook is absent.

He orders takeout pizza—a cheat, maybe, since he said he wanted to cook, but Anxiety’s favorite pizza is takeout, and Logic knows he can’t stack up to the grease-soaked talent of fast food restaurants. To make up for it, he bakes chocolate chip cookies and prepares a pot of coffee. It’s rich and dark, laden thickly with sugar, and he pours it into Anxiety’s favorite mug when it’s done.

They eat together, sitting on the couch and watching still more _Parks and Recreation_ —and if Anxiety’s eyes are on Logic more than the TV, well, that’s a little bit of a bonus.

* * *

 

“Are you going to come to bed after this episode?” Logic asks, squirting a blob of toothpaste onto his toothbrush.

“Yeah, probably,” Anxiety says, tilting his head and side-eyeing himself in the mirror. There’s nothing particularly negative in his gaze—and Logic is ever alert for it, so its absence is a marked relief. “I might watch one or two more.”

Logic hums an affirmative, unwilling to speak through a mouthful of foamy teeth and mint-flavored saliva. Once he’s finished brushing—two minutes, on the dot—he rinses his mouth out and says, “You shouldn’t stay up too late tonight. You only got five hours and approximately thirty minutes of sleep yesterday.”

“M’kay,” Anxiety says, brushing his bangs back before ambling towards the living room, where the TV’s familiar glow awaits.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Logic waits until Anxiety looks back at him, then leans forward on his toes, purses his lips, and stares expectantly at him. “I didn’t receive a good-night kiss. I was under the impression that exchanging good-night kisses had become a habit. I would like to indulge that habit now. However, if you don’t want a good-night kiss, you only need to say so, because your comfort is of the utmost importance to—”

Anxiety smiles at him, and Logic’s heart flips. “Logan. You can have a kiss. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted one tonight. I mean, you’re usually the one who kisses me. So I thought that—”

“That because I did not initiate the kiss, I did not desire one?” Logic frowns and taps his chin. “I can see how that would confuse you. My initiation has also become something of a habit. Well, you can kiss me, too. I wouldn’t mind.”

Anxiety hesitates, and while Logic’s first instinct is to move forward, press their lips together, and spare him the awkwardness of the moment, he refuses it. It would only be counterintuitive. He wants Anxiety to feel comfortable making the first move. So he waits, and Anxiety—brave Anxiety, so terribly brave, fighting against himself every second of every day to find happiness—moves first.

It’s a quick, chaste kiss, and it’s everything Logic could have hoped for. They part smiling, and Logic lifts a hand to cup the side of Anxiety’s face. He swipes a thumb across Anxiety’s eyeshadow, careful not to smudge it, and says, “Thank you, Anxiety.”

Anxiety blushes—difficult to see through his foundation, but obvious on the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. “Yeah, whatever, you sap,” he says, ducking his head.

“Good night, love,” Logic says, turning back towards the stairs and pretending not to hear Anxiety’s startled cough behind him.

Once in his bedroom, Logic changes into shorts and a loose t-shirt, then pulls out his black notebook. He flips to the section _Anxiety’s Insecurities_ and looks at the long list there broodingly. Reluctantly, he picks up his ballpoint pen and adds another to the list.

  1. _Initiating physically or emotionally intimate activities._



While he’s at it, he pulls out his other four notebooks—a bright red one with gilded pages, a sky blue one with a puppy on the cover, a black one with a blue spine, and a yellow one with a golden sun embedded in the corner. He updates these with today’s discoveries before locking them and hiding them away in their secret places.When that’s done, he stretches, rubs his glasses clean with his shirt one last time, and sets them on the bedside table. He crawls into bed, flicks off the lamp, and shuts his eyes.

But he doesn’t sleep. The bed feels too empty and cool without Anxiety beside him. Ordinarily, he’d be fine with having the bed to himself, but tonight—tonight feels different. He doesn’t know why, exactly, but the muted noise of the TV down the hall, and the knowledge that Anxiety isn’t chasing sleep with him, keeps him awake.

Still, he tries. He refuses to get up or call Anxiety to bed merely because he can’t sleep—at least, for the first three episodes he hears. Despite Anxiety’s promise to come to bed after that, he does not appear, and Logic hears the opening theme to the fourth episode. Maybe Anxiety just lost count? But then a fifth episode begins to play, and a sixth, and then it’s three in the morning and Logic is exhausted and _how_ is Anxiety still awake?

What if he’s _not_ still awake, though? What if he fell asleep watching the TV? The thought is enough to drag Logic out of bed and down the hall, back into the living room. He expects (hopes, if he’s going to be honest) to find Anxiety asleep on the couch, but he doesn’t. Anxiety is sitting on the floor in front of the armchair, chin propped in his hands, staring at the TV.

“Anxiety?” Logic says, and Anxiety jumps—guilty or startled, Logic can’t tell, and he can’t bring himself to care. Promises are emotionally centered, perhaps, but they’re also like—like _contracts,_ and breaking a contract is irrational. “I thought you were going to come to bed.”

“Why are you still up?” Anxiety asks, rubbing his eyes as though it will make Logic disappear. “I thought you went to sleep hours ago.”

“I tried to.”

“Was the TV too loud? Shit, I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s not that. I was—” Lonely? Worried? Confused? “I was waiting for you. You said you’d go to sleep after an episode or three. It’s been six.”

Guilt—yes, that’s definitely guilt, there’s the classic downturn of his mouth, the darting avoidance of his eyes, the forward tilt of his head—flashes across Anxiety’s face. “I—yeah, sorry, I just—I’m not really tired, and I didn’t want to bug you by tossing and turning all night. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Logic almost says it—almost says _I’m not worried,_ as though that wouldn’t crush Anxiety’s heart. God knows he needs people to be worried about him. Instead, he clamps his mouth shut around the words, acknowledges that they’re not true, even if sometimes he wishes they were. He _is_ worried. It’s only logical to be.

“A lack of sleep has been scientifically proven to be detrimental to both physical and emotional health,” Logic says. “You need to sleep, Anxiety.”

Anxiety grimaces, reaches up to tug at his hoodie zipper. “I know. I just—I can’t. Every time I lay down, I just end up staring at the ceiling for hours and thinking.”

Logic holds up a hand. “One moment.”

He slips back out of the living room, leaving behind a rather confused Anxiety, and goes to his room to grab his black notebook again. _Anxiety’s Sleeping Habits._ It’s been awhile since he’s had to review this section. Almost seven months, actually, and he supposes that that’s something to be grateful for.

_Encouraging Melatonin Production and Healthy Sleeping Schedules—Ideas_

  * __Limit exposure to blue light, such as TV or phone screens. Effectiveness 8/10__


  * _Offer something less stimulating to do before bed, such as reading. Effectiveness 5/10_


  * _Stretch to release tension in muscles. Effectiveness 6/10_


  * _Take a warm bath or shower to encourage relaxation. Effectiveness 5/10_


  * _Offer a light snack such as cereal. Effectiveness 7/10_


  * _Encourage peaceful visualization. Effectiveness 3/10_


  * _Encourage deep breathing. Effectiveness 8/10_



Logic stops there. Of course, there are other, more _physically_ stimulating options, but he’s not really in the mood for any of those—and he doubts Anxiety is either. He closes his notebook and stashes it away again, then goes back to the living room. Anxiety is hunched over his knees, head hanging, the TV paused and silent.

“Anxiety?” Logic says, and Anxiety’s head jerks up. His eyes are too bright, his cheeks wet. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Anxiety says, swiping a hand across his eyes.

Guilt seizes like a vice around Logic’s chest. “Oh, Ann, I wasn’t—I wasn’t mad when I left, I just went to—”

“It’s fine.”

Logic takes a deep breath and moves forward. _How could I just leave him alone with no explanation? What could he have possibly thought? I know how afraid he is of upsetting people._ “I’m still sorry. I should have known better than to just walk off.”

Anxiety doesn’t respond, but he accepts Logic’s hand up, and that makes him feel just the tiniest bit better.

“Let me try a few things to help you sleep,” Logic says, lacing their fingers together. “If they don’t work, you can keep watching TV. I won’t be disappointed.”

When Anxiety agrees, Logic leads him to the kitchen. He fills a bowl halfway with Cheerios, and Anxiety obligingly munches on them as they head to the bedroom. Once there, Logic coaxes him through a few stretches. He huffs and complains—“Physical activity is _not_ my thing, Lo”—but complies.

After that, Logic instructs him to lay face-down on the bed. “I’m going to give you a massage,” he says, “if it’s alright with you.”

He’s never tried it before, but experiments have ever been his strong suit, and he’s eager to find out what the result of this one will be. The back of Anxiety’s neck is bright red, he stumbles through his agreement, and when Logic straddles him the muscles of his back are whipcord tense.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this? We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Logic says. Making Anxiety uncomfortable is the last thing he wants to do.

“Yeah, I want to, I just—yeah.” Anxiety says, burying his face in the pillow. “Y’know.”

“I know.” It’s one of the first insecurities written in his notebook. _8\. Difficulty expressing desire for support or affection._ “Just tell me if you want to stop.”

“‘kay.”

Logic starts at Anxiety’s lower back, deciding to work his way up and end with his hands in Anxiety’s hair—if nothing else, perhaps that will put him to sleep. He presses the heels of his hands into the dense muscles beside Anxiety’s spine, just above his hips, and feels the tightness of them. Everything about Anxiety is held together by precarious threads, pulled just to the point of snapping, and Logic fears that if he presses too hard they _will_ snap.

He is beyond that fear, though. He has to be. For Anxiety’s sake, for his own sake, he has to be.

So he presses harder, works the tension out of the muscles in Anxiety’s spine, and watches what little of Anxiety’s face he can see for any sign of distress. The muscles in Anxiety’s arms are flexing nervously, and his breath is stuttered and uneven, but as Logic works his way up Anxiety’s back he begins to relax. The fluttering muscle in his jaw ceases to move, his hands ease from their white-knuckled grip on the sheets, and his breathing slows.

Logic is so _proud_ of him for that. He wants to murmur it—murmur praises and affections until Anxiety can think of nothing else, but he knows that that would only rile Anxiety back up. They’ve been working on Anxiety’s ability to accept compliments, but they’re not so far along that he can remain completely relaxed when someone says something nice to or about him.

Instead, he leans down and presses a dry kiss to the back of Anxiety’s neck. Anxiety hums appreciatively, cracking one eye open to look at him. It shuts again when Logic sits back up and moves his hands to Anxiety’s shoulders, kneading the muscle there. It’s warm and supple, despite all of the knots Logic can feel—knots that he wishes he could work out, but has very little idea how to. He had researched massages beforehand, of course, but knowing how to do something and being able to do something are two entirely different matters.

He smooths his thumbs over the nape of Anxiety’s neck, careful not to press too hard on his spine, and gently presses the pads of his fingers into the soft muscle in the hollow of Anxiety’s jaw. He doesn’t push hard there, lest he obstruct the vital flow of Anxiety’s blood, but allows himself a moment to simply feel Anxiety’s pulse and breathe with it. It’s slow, steady—good.

He moves his hands up, rubs tiny circles over the delicate flesh of Anxiety’s temples, imagines the incredible mind shielded from his hands by only a thin layer of muscle and bone. _Amazing,_ he thinks, and his heart aches with the truth of it. Suddenly, he wants to argue—wants to find a topic and grill Anxiety about it and pick all the parts of him out of his debate and discover his thoughts and opinions and reasoning because those matter more than anything else.

But no—not now. Not when Anxiety is loose and pliant and sleepy beneath his hands.

He slides off of Anxiety’s back, and Anxiety mumbles unhappily at him. “Shh,” Logic says, curling up next to him and pressing his forehead to Anxiety’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere. Go to sleep.”

Logic runs his fingers through Anxiety’s hair and watches the way the lines between his brows smooth out, the way his hands relax and his mouth loosens. His breathing slows, deepens, and Logic has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Of course, when he wakes up the next morning to see Anxiety sprawled out beside him, still asleep, his face half-lit with the golden sunrise, his hair mussed, with drool patched on the pillow beside his mouth, Logic thinks the exact same thing. Anxiety sleeps until early afternoon, and Logic refuses to leave the bed until he awakens, despite the fact that he really, really needs to pee.

When they do get up, the first thing Logic does—the first thing after he pees, anyway—is pull out his black notebook and add to the section _Anxiety’s Sleeping Habits: Encouraging Melatonin Production and Healthy Sleeping Schedules—Ideas_

  1. _Massage. Effectiveness 9/10_



* * *

 

Logic fumbles with the lock on the black notebook, his fingers shaking. Why are his fingers shaking? That’s not right, that’s not—he doesn’t feel fear, Anxiety is his fear, separate from him, so why is he—

“Logic, come _on,_ ” Prince says, and his voice sounds scared, too. Why are they all so scared? They shouldn’t be able to be scared. They’re sides. They have very specific abilities and emotions, and only one of them compromises fear.

But, Logic has to concede, that fearful side is currently terrified enough to be fucking with Thomas’ head, which fucks, in turn, with the rest of them.

He takes a deep breath, focuses, steadies his fingers. He can’t give in to Anxiety’s power. That won’t help any of them. He twists the key into the notebook’s lock and opens it, turning to the section _Panic Attacks._

The information here is sketchy at best. Despite hours of research over the internet, and in the library, there are a million different ideas and opinions on the topic. Logic would much rather have gotten his information from a licensed professional, but Anxiety refused. Still, he’s not flying completely blind. They’ve been through this a time or two (or three hundred) before.

He’s tried a lot of different things over the years, and he’s got a pretty good idea now of what works for Anxiety and what doesn’t. There are stars next to his favorites, and the ones that Anxiety has agreed are the best for him.

  1. _Stay calm._



Great, well, he’ll need to work on that before he goes to Anxiety’s room.

  1. _Move him into a calm, quiet place._



With Prince and Morality also freaking out, that’s going to be difficult—but they, too, have been through this before, and he knows they’ll work with him to help Anxiety.

  1. _Measured breathing._



Yeah—yeah, he can do that, that’s the easy part.

  1. _Encourage him to—_



“Logic, _please,”_ Prince says, and he sounds genuinely desperate, his voice muffled through Logic’s bedroom door. “We need you out here now.”

Logic’s hands tremble, but he shoves his notebook back into its drawer and races into the hallway. “Okay. I’m here. Where is he? Still in his bedroom?”

Prince nods, looking utterly distraught, and the two of them bolt down the hall to Anxiety’s room. Morality is already there, crouched beside Anxiety, who has jammed himself into the far corner of the room and is breathing hard into his hoodie sleeves. His eyes are wide and unseeing, his shoulders shake, and the rasp of his breath is ugly and uneven.

“Oh, Logic,” Morality says, looking at him with bright, distressed eyes. “Help. I’ve been trying to calm him down, but he won’t—he won’t—I can’t—”

“It’s alright,” Logic says, setting a tentative hand on Morality’s shoulder. “You need to calm down first. Do you want to step out for a minute?”

Morality hesitates, looking at Anxiety.

“I’ll take care of him,” Logic says.

“Okay. Okay, thank you.”

Morality slips out of the room, and Prince, after casting a helpless glance over his shoulder, follows. Logic takes a deep breath, centers himself, calls upon his nature as an unemotional being, and lowers himself to Anxiety’s level.

“Hey, Anxiety,” he says, keeping his voice calm and quiet. “Do you want to breathe with me? Here—in, and out. In, and out. Good. That’s good. Keep doing that with me.”

Anxiety stares at him, pupils swollen and face flushed, struggling to breathe in time—when he falters, his shaking increases, and Logic has to rush to assure him that it’s alright. It takes a long time—too long, it doesn’t usually take this long, does it? Is he doing something wrong? God, if only he had his notebook—before Anxiety’s breathing slows to an acceptable rate.

All the while, Logic keeps up a constant stream of murmured reassurances. “You’re doing so well, there you go, that’s perfect. You’re going to be alright. This won’t last forever. You can breathe, I promise, look—look, that’s right, in and out. Very good. You’re going to be okay, love.”

When, at last, Anxiety’s breathing has slowed and his trembling has lessened, Logic’s thoughts grind to a halt. What comes next? _17\. Measured breathing. 26. Encourage him to—_

To what? Why can’t he remember? He wrote it down, he’s done it before, why can’t he fucking _remember—_

He swallows, hears his throat click, and knows the exact moment when Anxiety notices the fear in his eyes—because Anxiety’s eyes seize on it, and reflect it right back, and his chest starts to rise and fall too quickly once again.

“No, no, Ann, it’s alright. Shh, shh-shh, let’s breathe again—in and out, love, there you go,” Logic says.

When Anxiety’s breathing has evened out again, Logic hears the door creak open behind them. He glances back to see Morality and Prince standing in the doorway, wringing their hands and looking for all the world like two terrified puppies. “Hey,” Logic says. “Can you guys watch him for a minute? I have to go get something.”

“Oh, of course,” Morality says, moving forward—Logic can see the effort it takes him not to run, but to walk, slowly, cautiously, and he appreciate it. He’s sure Anxiety does, too. Lowering himself to sit next to Anxiety, Morality continues, “Hey, sweetheart. How are you doing? Look at you, you’re breathing so well—good job, I’m so proud.”

Prince claps Logic on the shoulder as they pass each other, saying, “Well done, Logan.”

It doesn’t feel well done. It doesn’t feel well done at all. But Logic doesn’t say that—he nods, and slips back into his own room as quickly as he can. Once there, he lunges for his drawer, pulls out his black notebook and cradles it to his chest. Breathes. Opens back to _Panic Attacks_ and seeks out the starred suggestions.

  1. _Encourage him to drink something, once his heart rate has decreased significantly._



Oh. Of course. He’s done that before. He’s done that almost every time Anxiety has had an attack before. So why couldn’t he—why couldn’t he think of it?

  1. _Offer physical contact._
  2. _Offer a distraction, such as a puzzle._



Logic takes a deep breath, satisfied that he’s reviewed enough to pull Anxiety through the last dregs of his attack. He puts his notebook away and goes to retrieve a glass of water and a jigsaw puzzle. He takes both back to Anxiety’s bedroom, where Anxiety has gravitated into Morality’s arms, and Prince kneels protectively next to both of them.

The look that Prince offers him when he enters is unusual—terrifying, if he’s honest, something fierce and wary and dangerous. As though, for a moment, Logic was not another side, but a monster come to steal Prince’s friends away. That’s the kind of power Anxiety has over them, isn’t it? He can twist around their minds until they’re jumping at every little thing.

When Prince realizes that it’s Logic, however, he relaxes. “Hello. What’s that?” he asks.

“Water,” Logic says, crouching and offering Anxiety the glass, “and a puzzle.”

Anxiety sips at the water and watches as Logic spreads out all of the puzzle pieces and turns them right-side up. For the first few minutes, he watches as Prince and Logic begin piecing together the puzzle from the safety of Morality’s arms. When it’s halfway done, he moves to Logic’s side and begins helping them.

They finish the puzzle within the half-hour, and Logic, after asking him if it’s alright, gathers Anxiety into his arms. He hooks his chin over Anxiety’s shoulder and winds his arms around his chest and feels him breathing. Out—beyond them, in the great wide expanse of the mindscape—he can feel that Thomas has calmed down, too.

But that night, as he lays in bed with Anxiety curled tight around him, Logic is anything but calm. His thoughts are a plague, relentless and perturbing. Is this how Anxiety feels all the time? How exhausting. How can he stand to stay up as late as he does?

Once he’s certain that Anxiety is deeply asleep, Logic unwinds himself from him and pulls his black notebook out. He flips through the pages, running his fingers over each one, as familiar and dear to him as anything. He’s had it for almost twenty years now. He’s been pouring over these same notes and ideas for almost twenty years.

So why does he still need them? Shouldn’t he have them memorized by now? That’s what he does, right? He memorizes facts and figures and concepts. That’s _who_ he is. Anxiety is a puzzle, and he’s written down all of the cheat codes to solve him, but he can’t solve him without cheat codes because—because—

Because he’s an idiot.

He really needs to go to sleep. Thoughts like this don’t usually bother him so much, but after today’s attack, everything feels just a little too sensitive. He puts away the black notebook but pulls out the blue-spined notebook and adds something to the very last page.

_Logic’s Insecurities_

  1. _Relying on these stupid notebooks for everything._



* * *

 

“Lo? What’s this?”

“Hm?” Logic doesn’t look up from his book—he’s at a good part, seriously—when Anxiety speaks. “What’s what?”

“This. Hey, nerd, you’re not even paying attention.” Anxiety leans over the back of the armchair, sticking his face into Logic’s, close enough that his breath fogs Logic’s glasses. “What are you reading?”

_“Watership Down.”_

“Oh, yeah? Guess what I’m reading?”

“You’re reading?”

“Ha ha, very funny. Guess.”

“Hm— _50 Shades of Gray,_ perhaps?”

Anxiety waggles his eyebrows. “You’d like that, huh? But no. Guess again.”

_“Twilight?”_

“Nuh-uh.”

“Something mind-numbing, cliché, and melodramatic?”

“Oh, wow, you hit the nail on the head, because I’m reading—” Anxiety brings his arm up around the chair, holding a terrifyingly familiar black notebook in front of his face. “—your diary!”

Logic freezes. His first instinct is to grab for the notebook, but no—that would be detrimental. It would acknowledge how important the notebook is to Logic, which would feed Anxiety’s curiosity. Anxiety feeds off of information, anyway, especially the negative, so if Logic gives him a big reaction, he’ll want to chase out the _why_ of it, and that’s the last thing Logic wants. Besides, it’s not like he can get into it. It’s locked.

So, rather than freak out, Logic imperiously arches an eyebrow and says, “I’ll have you know that my diary is the finest of literature.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Anxiety holds out his other hand. “The key, please?”

Logic smirks at him and drops a kiss onto his nose. “You wish.”

Anxiety clutches his heart and mimes offense. “Why, I would think you didn’t trust me. What do you have written in here? Secret fantasies? Plans to establish a world government? Math problems?”

“All of the above and more, love,” Logic says.

“Oooh. That’s interesting. What could be so embarrassing that you can’t let me see?”

“Lots of things.” Logic grins wolfishly, hoping that he can redirect the blood from Anxiety’s brain (much as he adores it) to his crotch. “Want me to demonstrate?”

Anxiety swoons sarcastically. (If you had told Logic that someone could swoon sarcastically ten years ago, he would have laughed. He now knows no more accurate description of Anxiety’s swoons.) “Oh, Mr. Sanders, teach me Algebra II, please. It gets me all hot under the collar.”

“Are you into that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? You could write it all down in your diary.”

_Honestly?_ Logic thinks. _Probably._ There is a section for Anxiety’s various kinks, boundaries, and preferences.

“So,” Anxiety says, glancing back at him with a distinctly sultry look. “Key?”

And oh, god, but Logic almost wishes he _could_ give Anxiety the key. What does he have to hide, really? That he keeps obsessive notes about Thomas and the other sides? They’d probably just write it off as another one of his idiosyncrasies.

But—but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels important.

“Maybe you can convince me,” Logic says, watching Anxiety with half-lidded eyes.

He expects Anxiety to say something equally snarky or flirtatious, but—but he sighs. His face smooths out, save for the line forming between his brows, and his shoulders sag. Logic’s heart stutters. Did he say something wrong? Did he do something wrong?

“Ann?” Logic asks hesitantly. “Are you—did I—”

“You’re fine,” Anxiety says, smiling tightly at him. “I just—I—you know, Lo, I _am_ fear. So when Thomas has a panic attack, when I _cause_ him to have a panic attack, when I _scare_ you guys—I don’t forget that.”

“Is this about what happened a few weeks ago? Love, you didn’t do anything wrong. You—”

“No, that’s not it,” Anxiety says. “Not exactly. When I was having that attack, though, you know what I noticed? You were scared, Lo. Sure, sometimes you’re nervous, but that time—you were _scared._ It wasn’t normal.”

Logic glances away, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I—”

“Don’t be sorry for feeling scared. That’s what you tell me all the time, right? In fact, I’m the one who should be apologizing, ‘cause after I saw you get scared, I got curious. That’s what I do. If I see fear, I have to figure it out. It’s like—like a puzzle.”

Logic can understand that, at least. “Okay. But that’s not something you need to apologize for, either.”

“No, maybe not. But I got curious about why _you_ were scared, and I started snooping. That’s how I found this notebook. You already figured that out, of course. But I, uh, I also found the other four. And the keys.” Anxiety reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny silver key. It gleams malevolently under the fluorescent lights.

Logic’s heart leaps into his throat, and he feels it again—that strange, foreign emotion called fear. It must show on his face, because guilt flashes through Anxiety’s eyes. “You went through my stuff?” Logic demands. “Seriously?”

“It was wrong. I know. That’s why I’m—that’s why I’m giving these back.” Anxiety sets the notebook on the couch and lays the key on top of it before stepping away. Logic doesn’t bother with pretense anymore, jumping forward and snatching them both up before Anxiety can change his mind. “I haven’t opened any of them. I’m sorry.”

Logic frowns at him, clutching his notebook to his chest and feeling the solid weight of it there—the weight of secrets, of shame. Betrayal smarts in his chest—Anxiety went through his stuff without permission? Why couldn’t he have just _asked?_ —but it’s tinged with unfortunate understanding.

“‘Better to ask forgiveness than permission’ is not a respectable adage,” he says, which is as close as he can get to scolding when Anxiety looks so apologetic.

“I know,” Anxiety says. “I’ll ask next time. But I just want you to know—what’s in there, whatever’s scaring you, you don’t have to keep it locked up. I’m here to listen, when you’re ready to talk.”

Logic stares at him for a long moment, love surging suddenly and violently in his chest for this ridiculous person. He’s not ready—not yet. But maybe, some day soon, he will be. Gathering his courage, he holds the notebook and key out to Anxiety and says, “Okay. Here, can you take these back to the room? Thanks for—for telling me. And for not opening them.”

Anxiety looks taken aback, but he accepts the notebook and its key. “Yeah. Of course.”

The next few weeks pass in a blur of thinking and wondering and summoning courage until finally, one evening, he draws Anxiety into his room. He sets the black notebook and its key between them on the bed and nudges them towards Anxiety. “Here,” he says.

“I can open it?” Anxiety asks, glancing at him with something painfully like hope.

“Yeah.”

Logic studies his bedsheets as he listens to Anxiety fiddling with the notebook’s lock. His fingers twist themselves together. All he has to do is sit still. All he has to do is let Anxiety learn and understand. All he has to do is let the flayed-open parts of himself be read through and—and laughed at.

But no. Anxiety wouldn’t do that. Would he?

He hears Anxiety flipping through the notebook’s pages, and the sound sends shudders down his spine. What is he thinking? Is he thinking that Logic’s a creep? An obsessive? Will he want to break up? Will it be awkward? Will he hate him? Will he tell the other sides? What will they think?

And then—to his utter and absolute horror—he hears Anxiety sniffle. His head snaps up in time to see Anxiety wiping away tears, and his heart feels like it’s been smashed into a million miserable pieces. “Oh, god, Ann, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know it’s weird, I know, I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I swear—”

Anxiety’s eyes meet his, and there’s fury there, behind a glistening film of tears. “Don’t you _dare,_ Logan.”

Logic drops his head and hunches his shoulders. He deserves it. He deserves Anxiety’s rage, his hate, his disgust. What kind of a freak keeps comprehensive notes on his friends? He should probably just burn the stupid notebooks. It would make everyone more comfortable. (So why does his heart scream at the idea?)

“Stop—look at me. Look at me, Logan.”

Anxiety’s voice is uncharacteristically firm, and Logic reluctantly meets his gaze. “‘m sorry, Ann, I didn’t mean—I didn’t want—”

Anxiety reaches forward, and Logic flinches, certain he’s going to be struck—it’s no less than he deserves. But Anxiety’s hand immediately falls back to his lap, and there’s horror in his eyes. “God, I’m not going to hit you. I’m not mad. I’m—I’m—Logan, this is so _nice.”_

What. “What?”

Anxiety leans forward, earnest. “These notes. They’re so nice. I had no idea you were paying so much attention. It’s—it’s really sweet.”

Logic stares at him, torn between hope and fear. Is this real? Is Anxiety actually saying these things? Then, to his horror, Logic feels tears starting to well in his eyes, and he’s helpless to stop them from streaking down his cheeks. He drops his head.

“Oh, baby. Can I touch you?” Anxiety asks, and Logic nods. He’s gathered to Anxiety’s chest, held tightly, and then Anxiety is crooning in his ear, “You’re so incredible, Lo. This must have taken so much time. I’m so impressed. You’re so dedicated, so determined—I can’t believe you care that much. The other four, they’re for Prince and Morality and Thomas, right? And the fifth one is—is for you?”

Logic nods, twisting his fingers nervously in the back of Anxiety’s hoodie. “Sorry,” he says, voice rough and cracked, because that’s still the only thing that makes sense to say—he can’t fathom that Anxiety _actually_ enjoys this stupid fascination of Logic’s.

“No.” Anxiety pulls back and hooks a finger under Logic’s chin. He tips it up until their eyes meet and says, “There’s nothing to be sorry about. If this is something you enjoy doing, if it—if it helps you somehow, and it’s not hurting anyone, then there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Logic ducks his head and hides it in the crook of Anxiety’s neck again, and Anxiety lets him. They sit there, wrapped up each other, until Logic finally calms down. All the while, Anxiety runs comforting hands over his back and murmurs sweet nothings— _so amazing, Logan, so clever, I love you so much._

When Logic has sagged in his arms, weak and spent and tired and so unbelievably relieved, Anxiety presses a kiss to the top of his head and asks, “Could I see your notebook? The one that’s about you?”

Logic squirms closer to Anxiety’s chest, and his arms tighten obligingly. “Yeah,” Logic says. “Just maybe—maybe not today? If that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Anxiety says. “We can wait as long as you need.”

“I love you,” Logic says, and it’s one of those rare moments when the words aren’t forced between his teeth and his pride.

Anxiety only cuddles him closer. “I love you, too.”

That night, Logic pulls out his black notebook and flips to the very front pages. There, in bold blue ink, is his favorite section, _Anxiety’s Positive Attributes._

He goes to the bottom of the list and adds, in his careful, sharp-edged handwriting:

  1. _He likes these stupid notebooks_



Even when Anxiety sees the notebook with Logic’s information—with his insecurities and negative attributes and everything bad—Logic has a feeling that Anxiety will still love him. It’s a nice feeling. It’s one that he wouldn’t trade for anything. It’s one that he can’t put into words, much as he might want to, but it’s also one that he knows he won’t forget. Even if he’s freaking out, even when the need to review what he knows seizes him because _what if he’s wrong,_ he won’t forget.

Anxiety loves him, and he loves Anxiety.


End file.
